I’ve never told a dating story like this one. It’s not about a disastrous but hilarious encounter, nor is it a tale of another “really great guy” who had everything I was looking for except that indefinable chemistry. Buckle up, my friends, because this is a love story.

After a year of online dating all of you know I was spent. Just the thought of my profile on a dating website made me nauseous as I was certain the process wasn’t for me.

BUT, there is something about time and distance that dulls the insanity of that forced year and a few months ago I decided to dabble in the practice again. There are many new options—apps, niche sites, etc., and the beauty in discovering all those new choices is that I also have the choice to stay on or get myself off when the inevitable burnout is reached.

Ahh, the luxury of being a normal online dater.

After only a week I’d gone on two dates and had two more scheduled. One of those dates was of the boondoggle variety you’ve come to expect. Maybe I’ll write about it at some point. The other was a good date—but he was only in the city for a short visit and returned to the UK a few days after we met. My two upcoming dates were with what I figured were nice guys but let’s just say they weren’t exactly wowing me with riveting pre-date conversations. Then I received this message from Will:

“You are beautiful, but I have to ask, current pics?”

I replied:

“Naw, high school, but my friends say I look just the same.”

And. It. Was. On.

What transpired was the most entertaining back and forth I’ve every experienced. The instant simpatico we had was, well, stunning. One of us would toss up the precursor so the other could deliver the outrageous punch line.

It was a dance of comedic timing and I’d met my match—in fact I’m sure he was funnier. So clever that I would often scream with laughter over his retorts. He told me he laughed out loud several times a day when recalling the things I’d written.

Yes, I went on those two dates scheduled prior to meeting Will, but those men—as nice as they were—didn’t stand a chance. It was all I could do to get through dinner without checking my phone for his magic texts.

Will (50) lived in Westchester, had one child in college and was in the process of divorcing. He described the situation as “amicable” and himself as one with “no baggage.” I know, ridiculous and impossible, but because our texting tête-à-tête was so over the top, I was happy for it to continue knowing that eventually I’d learn the realistic version of his circumstances.

AND (full disclosure), I wasn’t ready for our jousting to be muddied by the inevitable encumbrances that living a half-century includes. I was also reticent to exchange too many details, as I would then have to share that I write about dating. That tends to make men nervous. Wonder why?

Of course, I dreaded giving him my last name, too.

Damn you, Google.

But it seems all good free flow must end and Will eventually turned the conversation in the career direction and I had to disclose what I do. Um, kind of. He asked about what I’d written and I vaguely responded by telling him I wrote articles and blogged about a variety of different subjects: aging, being single over fifty, that sort of thing. He seemed satisfied but just as I relaxed and pulled my head from the guillotine, Will shared his last name and asked me mine.

NO! What do I say?

I told him I didn’t want to share my last name—went on a text ramble about my desire for him to get to know me before reading the stuff I’d written—really blathered on and on. A couple of seconds later he replied with:

“Robinson”

Seems all he had to do was Google Melani/Writer/New York City and with the unique spelling of my first name, www.melanirobinson.com popped up along with: Author/1 Year of Online Dating at 50. He asked if I was on the dating site for writing material. I assured him I was not. I also asked that he not read anything I’d written but instead get to know me. Then I waited for his response.

I asked if he was going to reply and he texted that he was “processing” all the information he’d just learned. He also mentioned that it was “surreal.” I told him I understood and I would wait to hear from him once he had finished processing.

Then I felt sick. Really awful. All night long. He never responded and I came to the conclusion that he was no longer interested. I didn’t blame him and my biggest fear of digital dating became a reality. In the real world when I meet a man I control my narrative and the fact that I wrote a blog about a year of online dating doesn’t sound ominous. Imagine, though, if you’re on a website and you learn that the person you’re corresponding with writes about online dating. Completely different game. I actually can’t think of a worse scenario—unless I was a stripper.

What? Are you thinking I’m delusional with the stripper comparison? Wow, I can almost see your smirk from here. OKKKKK, snarky reader, I’ll clarify. Unless I was a stripper working the assisted-living circuit. Sheesh, happy now?

By the next morning I’d still not heard from Will. At that point we had been communicating numerous times a day so I knew it was bad. Feeling down because I was beginning to believe he might be the one I’d been hoping to meet for so long, I decided to delete my profile from the dating site. Nobody else could compare and even if I met someone else, I would still have to go through the explanation of my work.

BUT, before I deleted my profile I sent Will one final message. I explained that the thing I feared most had happened and he obviously didn’t want to continue to communicate. I gave him my phone number and told him if he changed his mind he could call. I also explained that I would leave my profile up for a few hours to be sure he got the message but after that, it would be deleted.

Chose a blonde so you might think it’s me.

Then I went to yoga.

And thought of nothing but him–even while holding two lengthy, torturous plank poses—regular AND side.

My yogi is a complete asshole.

Once finished with class I checked my phone and faced the truth. I would never hear from Will again. I deleted my profile and headed to Trader Joe’s for groceries.

On the walk I got a call…

To be continued.

The other day we were driving back to the city from Staten Island, where I take my dogs to the vet (not a story filled with bitterness towards Manhattan veterinary care, promise). Although, there IS belligerence bubbling just under the surface, don’t doubt that for a minute. Have I told you I don’t like to drive in or out of the city? I do it when I have to but if I can get one of my daughters to take the wheel, I’m golden. The girls regularly refer to this as “Driving Miss Daisy.” To. My. Face. Here’s how it sounds, “Seriously, Mom, does it always have to be Driving Miss Daisy?”

They really are the most retched creatures.

On this road trip as we passed Brooklyn, I noticed a church I’d seen before and struggled to remember the details of why it was familiar. Eventually it became clear. I’d walked past that church while on a date, during my year of online dating. It was one of those stories that never made the blog. I had plenty of over-the-top material to write about and this just wasn’t outrageous enough. Perplexing? Yes. But rather white bread when the competition was a little person following me on a date or a Robert De Niro impersonator with a roach-infested apartment.

This date was with an architect named Henrik who lived in Brooklyn.

Henrik and I went on two dates prior to the “walk past the church” outing. He took me to dinner twice and then asked if I’d like to see some projects he was working on—two brownstone renovations in Brooklyn. He also mentioned he’d completed gutted and then renovated his apartment and I could see that, too, if I was interested. I’m a do-it-yourselfer so the prospect of seeing what a pro could do was very enticing but the truth was simple and unfortunate. That mysterious “it” just wasn’t there with Henrik. We’d had two very nice dates, and he was interesting, smart and handsome. But Henrik was a serious guy and he never made me laugh. Not even once. I’m not sure if that was the reason I didn’t feel any attraction because normally it’s either there for me or not and I know it within ten minutes of meeting. But, remember (if you followed the blog), I was trying to be open to the possibility that it could grow over time. There was also this little thing that bothered me on both date one and two. Henrik had slight body odor. Now, this was not the “knock you to your knees” variety but more the “working all day and forgot deodorant” sort of funk. I couldn’t smell B.O. from across the table, but when he hugged me goodnight on date one and kissed me goodbye on date two, I caught a whiff.

I was going to tell him I just wasn’t feeling it but then he asked me to see his work. Talent turns me on and I thought, what the hell? Sure, he was a bit fragrant, but he was also European and it’s been my experience in certain countries, the natural body scent we all have sans antiperspirant is the preference when compared to the perfumed pits of an American. I figured if I saw his stuff, maybe it would trigger the feeling that was missing–then I’d work on his aroma.

Henrik asked me to join him for brunch on a Saturday and later we’d walk to his projects. Brunch was pleasant and after he paid the bill we started out on foot. It was during the stroll that we passed the church (I mentioned at the beginning of this post). He took me through both brownstones and his work was A-MA-ZING. He was so talented and I loved every moment of exploring the construction in progress. We traversed from bottom to top, sometimes even using a ladder instead of stairs to reach the next floor. He was always a gentleman, taking my hand as we maneuvered around and through the rubble. Again, I caught the smell of his sweat a couple of times and it was stronger than usual—I guess with all the climbing we were doing.

After several hours of exploring, Henrik suggested we have a glass of wine and then head to his apartment so he could show me a finished project. I told him that sounded great but only if he’d let me pay. He agreed. We actually ended up getting something to eat, too, and I was glad to reciprocate since he paid for dinner twice and then brunch. I knew I wouldn’t see him again but I hoped we could be friends.

We had a couple of glasses of wine, some grub and then went to his place. It was spectacular–architecturally stunning and beautifully decorated. As he showed me from room to room I gushed appropriately, even making a spectacle of myself over his high-end dishwasher. Once the tour ended he asked if I would like another glass of wine. I told him I needed to get going as I had dinner plans with my daughters—true statement. He walked me to the subway and I noticed his attitude changed from the apartment to the sidewalk. He was cold and actually rather rude. I asked a couple of questions about the neighborhood and he could barely answer where as earlier it was as if he was auditioning for the guide on one of those red bus tours. Once we reached the subway, he simply turned and walked away without a word.

I was taken aback. Had I done something wrong? Was I not effusive enough about his apartment? I didn’t know how I could be more complementary unless I licked the walls or threw my body on his tasteful carpet and rolled around gleefully repeating, “Can’t get enough, just can’t get enough!”

Once home I sent a thank-you email. He did not respond and I never heard from him again. Sure, I could’ve asked if I’d somehow offended him but I knew this wasn’t a good romantic match and I didn’t need to figure out his sullen behavior.

That is, until the recent Brooklyn drive by with my daughter Chelsea and her friend Chelsea. Yes, my daughter has a friend with the same name. Her friend actually has the same first and last name and even middle initial. I’ve heard about “Chelsea who has the same name” for quite some time. They met at CU. It’s not that I didn’t believe my daughter, per se, but it was highly suspect and for very good reason. She’s done this before so it might be a pattern of behavior. She had imaginary friends as a child, my odd little duck. She constantly talked about her “Mommy and Daddy animals that let her do anything she wanted.” OK, I admit I was often annoyed with those make-believe indulgent hairy parents. They were, after all, competing for the kid’s affection. Since I had never met the elusive Chelsea I was skeptical. “Never trust your children no matter the age” has always been my parenting plan. But then last week Chelsea showed up when she moved to the East Coast after graduation. That’s how she ended up in the car with us on our trek to Staten Island and here’s the conversation.

Me: “I remember when I saw that church.” (Then I told them the story along with the confusion at the end.)

Chelsea 1: “He was pissed because you didn’t have sex.”

Chelsea 2: “Yeah, date three is usually sex.”

Me: “What? No way! He couldn’t have thought we’d have sex. We barely knew each other.”

Chelsea 1: “Of course he did. You went to his apartment. I’m gay and even I know that.”

Chelsea 2: “If I’m not ready for sex and I’m invited to their place, I make a joke and say something like, ‘OK, but we’re not fucking.’”

So, mystery solved, almost two years later. Henrik expected sex and when it didn’t happen, he threw the dignified architect’s version of a temper tantrum. Good to know. It seems even an “expert” like me has stuff to learn. Therefore, I’ve made a decision in the interest of my continuing education. Until further notice (that will never come) I’ll keep asking my daughters to drive me to and fro.

And you can call me Miss Daisy.

I felt awful as I got ready for my date with Rob. Sure, it was only one night of promise with Scott, but it meant something to me. I allowed myself—ever so briefly—to be hopeful. You’d think I would be jaded, considering my history of bad dates. Some might even suggest I should plan for the worst so if something good happens it will be a pleasant surprise.

That’s just not my nature.

Yes, in many ways I’m a realist, perhaps even a cynic, but when it comes to love, I’m a dreamer.

Pedro Superdoorman called to let me know Rob was in the lobby so I took a deep breath, put on a perky face and repeated half-full-isms as I rode the elevator down to meet him.

He looked great. In fact, that’s an understatement. He looked like he stepped off the page of a Brooks Brothers catalog. The man was practically wrapped in cellophane and there’s nothing that makes me worry more about an errant hair or spinach in my teeth, than a guy who’s that fastidious. And you know I love a well-groomed man but have to say, I draw the line at Felix Unger.

Even his shoes shined like a mirror and the streets were a slushy mess after a recent snowstorm.

Did he walk over with trash bags on his feet?

We headed out to Dakota Bar where he’d made a reservation. The place was crowded and noisy—filled with a bunch of hipsters. What is it about that ironic mustached bunch that leads them to believe they’re so clever? That everyone (even those seated two tables away) can’t wait to hear what they have to say? Could it be all those trophies for participation?

OK, back to Rob.

We ordered wine and shouted across the table to each other. I learned that he was in the process of a divorce, but not single yet. His parting was taking longer than usual because he had a very difficult situation with his wife—one I’m not going into. That he shared it with me was brave and I respected and admired his willingness to be upfront. He talked about his job and what he enjoyed doing when not working. He was a triathlete and competed often in ironman competitions. He started running many years earlier as stress-relief from his marriage. He mentioned that he’d been unable to run outside because of all the snow and working out in the gym didn’t give him the results he must have.

Now, when I say this man had a perfect body I want you to understand I’m not comparing it to the average in shape fifty-ish male physique. Rob could hold his own with Olympic athletes and I told him as much. Then he mentioned his BMI was that of a fit twenty year old. He wasn’t bragging, either, just stating a fact. He also said he was hoping that the next day (Sunday) would be clear weather so he could get up at 5am and go for a run. A fifteen fucking mile run or some god-awful distance like that.

I couldn’t take it anymore.

Let the over-sharing begin.

“You have a great body, I don’t see anywhere you need to lose weight.”

OK, Rob got big points for that one but he didn’t understand. I was wrapped in shape wear that would eventually come off. When I bid adieu to my little spandex friend—shit would get real.

At that point I knew two things: There was someone at our table who looked head-to-toe airbrushed AND one of us could strip down, walk naked to the bathroom and receive mad hipster applause. Neither, was the blonde wearing Spanx.

After a second glass of wine I was ready to go. Rob walked me home and apologized for choosing such a noisy place.

“Next time I’ll make sure we can hear each other if you’ll see me again,” he said.

I struggled to see the point. I could probably push through the impossible hardship of dating a physically PERFECT specimen, but Rob didn’t make me laugh. Not once. He was smart, had beautiful manners, and seemed incredible decent but I was kind of bored. Nonetheless, after the recent Scott debacle, “decent” won and I told Rob I would enjoy getting to know him better.

“I need to clarify that I’m not ever going to run. If you’re looking for a woman who’s willing to lace up her sneakers for a Sunday morning togetherness jog, that’s not me.”

I didn’t add that I was hoping for Sunday mornings in bed with the Times, a bacon, egg and cheese bagel sandwich, strong coffee and an even stronger man because, well, some things are best saved for the second date.

We said goodbye in front of my building with a chaste peck and over the next several days, Rob and I sent a few texts back and forth. He said he’d like to arrange a dinner date for the weekend and he’d get back to me once he had figured out his schedule.

Good ole reliable Rob. I was all snuggled up, safe in his steadfastness.

Welp, that weekend passed and another and another and I never heard from Rob. I didn’t text him, either, and wasn’t bothered a bit. Sure, it was weird, but no biggie. I just wasn’t that into him and obviously he felt the same.

A month later my neighbors and I were just about to head over to that same bistro for dinner when I got a text.

I’m at [bistro name] and haven’t been here since the night we met. Would you be interested in meeting for a drink?

Funny you should be there. I’m having dinner with friends in less than an hour.

We met up with Rob as we waited for our table. He ordered drinks for all of us and we chatted until our table was ready. I asked if he’d like to join us. He declined and instead asked if I would be interested in going to dinner the next night. I knew Rob was a good man and probably had a logical explanation as to why he disappeared. I was willing to hear him out. He said he’d call in the morning with a time and place and asked if there was any food I didn’t like. I told him I was really watching what I ate and I would appreciate a place with fish on the menu. I didn’t add that I’d lost five pounds and wasn’t wearing shape wear because who shares that kind of information anyway?

Steady Eddie called the next morning to let me know he’d made a reservation at Ocean Grill and would meet me there. Dinner was absolutely delicious–the conversation, painfully predictable. Rob didn’t mention his disappearance so I did. He apologized and then explained. He realized after our date that he had to push forward with the divorce—a messy situation. He’d also been approached about a job in another state and he’d traveled there, first for an interview, and then twice to assess the area. Both were valid reasons for being unavailable but still not justification for his lack of communication.

“You’re right. I got caught up in everything but should’ve reached out.”

“Ok, but I want you to understand. You disappear again, I disappear forever.”

We finished our meal while continuing to talk. I made him laugh and hoped he could do the same for me. Didn’t happen. It wasn’t as boring as watching paint dry, but it was pretty dull. I didn’t think I was up for a third date and after another chaste kiss goodnight I was sure of it. If he’d really kissed me I might’ve known if we had a drop of physical chemistry.

The next day he texted to let me know he’d enjoyed our night. He had some divorce stuff going on that week but would keep in touch and was looking forward to seeing me again. Over the next few days we exchanged texts. I didn’t want to go on a third date with Rob but I also didn’t want to reject him in the midst of what he was dealing with. I spent a lot of time thinking about a nice way to tell him. I wanted it to be the perfect blend of flattery and kindness—to let him down softly, that decent, considerate and consistent man.

UNNECESSARY.

After a few days that radio went silent and I never heard from Rob again.

Good Ole Reliable Rob.

OK, here we go.

With my back to Rob and deep in conversation with Scott it did occur to me that I was being rude. After all, I approached him with the Cheek’d card and my friend was forced to compensate for my bad manners by making small with Rob.

I turned back around and joined their conversation.

“I’d like to take you out tomorrow night,” said Rob.

“Um, OK,” I said, kind of surprised at how quickly he made that statement.

I had very little interest but was also aware that a dose of healthy competition between two males was nature at its best. The truth: Scott had attempted to cock-block Rob with his statement about Rob’s stupid comment so it was obvious (at least in his mind) that it was Game On.

“Can I get your number or do you want me to go through this site?” Rob said, pointing to the Cheek’d card.

I gave him my number and he told me he’d call the next morning with time and location. He left soon after, and I turned back to Scott. I wasn’t ignoring my friend as she’d turned towards the woman next to her and they continued the conversation they’d started before Rob approached.

Scott ordered a second drink for the three of us and put his to-go order in as our conversation continued. I learned that he was divorced with a ten-year-old daughter. Not exactly what I was hoping to hear but given his age (45) and location, it was to be expected. With the freakishly successful fertility doctors in New York City it’s not uncommon for men in their fifties to have a set of twins still breastfeeding. I guess a fifth grader wasn’t so bad.

The conversation was stimulating and I found myself fantasizing about many more with him in the future. My friend joined in and mentioned that I was an exceptional cook. Scott asked if I would cook for him and I was already creating the menu in my mind. I imagined inviting him over and dining al fresco on the terrace. I pictured lots of candles, a great bottle of wine and the decedent meal I would prepare. I also imagined what might follow the feast—something even more delicious.

The bartender eventually arrived with his order—all boxed up and bagged. Scott handed him his credit card and then asked for my number. He suggested I text him when I got home as he hated to cut the evening short but had to deliver the meal to his relatives. Then he left but not before sharing how glad he was that we’d met and how much he was looking forward to knowing me better.

I’d say it was a pretty amazing night and there hadn’t been a time recently where I felt so belle of the ball-ish. Two men who were interested in one night? It wasn’t quite the days from my roaring thirties on Friday nights at Gordon Biersch, but close.

Back then I would strategically talk to four men (one per side of the square bar) looping around all night. I did that often and it was easy. Now it was a big night if someone called me “Miss” instead of “Ma’am.”

We stayed a little longer, finished our second martini and then asked for the bill.

“You’re all taken care of. The gentleman paid for your drinks,” said the bartender.

“All taken care of” was something I hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Even better? Scott took care of my drinks AND my friend’s and did so without fanfare. He was both generous and courtly. A keeper, for sure.

We swayed home—normally one martini is my limit—and I couldn’t wait to text Scott once in my apartment all PJed up, makeup washed off.

For the next hour we exchanged texts that grew increasingly flirty. He was a digital wordsmith and I loved the banter. Scott was leading our conversation down the path to sexting and although I was absolutely sexually attracted to him, I was wise enough to know I’d had too much to drink and would regret flying the freak flag with the sober sunrise illuminating my cyber slut-isms. Instead I told him I needed to get some sleep but before we signed off, I asked his last name. He gave it and then reiterated how happy he was and how lucky he felt that we met. I replied:

Me too, Scott. I’m really glad I met you.

He responded by telling me he HAD to see me soon. We’d make plans.

The next morning I woke up smiling even with a hangover. I scrolled through the text conversation again before getting out of bed. I knew I’d hear from Scott once he’d awakened I figured we might even meet for brunch.

Like clockwork, Rob called as he said he would at 10am. I couldn’t have been less interested but I tried to remember not to put all my eggs in one bin—as hard as that was. He suggested drinks and appetizers at a new wine bar on the Upper West Side on 72nd and Columbus, the Dakota Bar and insisted he would pick me up in the lobby of my building. Normally I would’ve been impressed with his follow through and gallantry but Scott occupied my brain and I was surprised I’d not heard from him.

By mid afternoon the radio silence continued. I didn’t reach out to him either, though, and here’s why. Scott is Alpha. He had no issue going after what he wanted the night before. He didn’t hesitate even when I repeatedly brushed him off while pursuing another man. He was very comfortable in that role and I knew if he wanted me, he’d make it happen.

But he hadn’t, yet.

LET THE CYBERSTALKING BEGIN!

I Googled Scott’s full name and nothing came up. Weird. I searched the firm he worked for and his name and nothing came up. Really weird. Then I simply searched his first name and his firm. Bingo! A company event and a photo of Scott. Except his last name was spelled much differently than what he’d texted. Seems Scott had given me the phonetic spelling of his name. Without outing him by giving you the two names, what he did was spell a part of his name with an “F” when a “PH” was how it was actually spelled. Obviously not a typo. What the hell?

LET THE “I THINK HE’S AN ASSHOLE” FRENZIED SEARCH PROCEED!

A few seconds later I had a pit in my stomach as I stared at a photo of Scott, his wife and little girl at a children’s charity event. It was only a few month old so not only did he lie about being married, he also added several years to his daughter’s age—probably because I’d told him my daughters were adults. His child was no more than four. He wasn’t bringing food to his brother and sister-in-law. While he chatted me up for almost two hours, his wife and child waited for him to bring home their dinner.

Wow, did I feel foolish. Thank God we didn’t sext.

I have no idea why Scott did what he did. Perhaps he gets off on playing women. Maybe it’s the thrill of the pursuit and the knowledge that he still has it? Possibly his marriage is boring? No matter the reason, he’s a scumbag. Halfway through our conversation at the bar he asked if I was divorced. I told him I was a widow and he expressed how sorry he was and then asked several questions about how I recovered from the loss. He KNEW the hardest thing I’d done after losing my husband was to attempt to make a new life and find love again. He knew I was certainly more vulnerable and maybe even more fragile than the average divorcee and, yet, he still pursued me with the knowledge that he was going to disappear back into his marriage without even a backward glance.

When you break it down, it’s truly twisted.

I never let Scott know I was onto him and deleted his number from my phone. He only lives a few blocks away and maybe one of these days I’ll pass him and his family on the street. I would never say anything. His wife will find out eventually whom she’s married to if she doesn’t already know. But I will take pleasure in looking him in the eye with an expression that reflects that I’m aware of who he is underneath that unassuming, exceedingly average exterior.

Well played, Scott, but one day you’ll pick the wrong woman, she won’t exit as quietly and might even be a bunny boiler.

My date(s) with Rob in the next installment.

To be continued…

“I’ve told Billy if I ever caught him cheating, I wouldn’t kill him because I love his children and they need a dad. But I would beat him up. I know where all of his sports injuries are.” Angelina Jolie

Chemistry is tricky. Most of the time we think of it as an instant attraction. You know, the certain feeling one gets during that first encounter. The “I think I’d like to have sex with you. Maybe not today, but eventually,” sort of vibe.

BUT, that’s chemistry with a small c and there’s no doubt we’ve all experienced it more than once. What I’m talking about is the tricky Chemistry. That’s the feeling of “I think I’d like to have sex with you. Maybe not today, but eventually, and then afterwards I’d like to talk—for hours.”

As you know, I made a decision after a year of online dating to kick it old school. No more cyber-augmented love for me. I also decided I’d keep my love life to myself after that year of over sharing.

Well, I’m going to break that second rule now and tell you about one night in my traditional dating world.

About two months ago a friend and I were having cocktails at a neighborhood bistro. We both love a perfectly prepared martini and the bartender makes a mean one.

It was a Friday night and we arrived around 7:30pm. The place was packed but we eventually got two seats at the bar. She’s in a committed relationship but is often my wingwoman and we immediately began looking around for eligible men of a certain age—for me.

We both zeroed in on a man seated at the opposite end of the bar.

“Do you see that good looking guy at the end of the bar?”

“Just spotted him,” I replied.

Kind of sounds like hunters preparing to chamber a bullet, right? Here’s why. The guy was the black rhino of single men fifty or older. Extremely good looking, well-dressed, fit, no wedding ring, and confident. I knew he was confident because as I looked at him he boldly looked back, smiled, nodded and raised his glass to me.

I told you about using Cheek’d cards in a previous post. I’d slipped a few into my evening bag that night and my friend and I quickly began looking for the right clever greeting to give to the gorgeous stranger. Let me tell you, I was not going to let him leave without one. As we debated about the selection, the man seated next to me interjected by asking about what we were doing. We’d been there for about thirty minutes by then and I could tell two minutes after we sat down, he wanted to join our conversation.

I also thought he might be interested in me–just a feeling I got–and that feeling wasn’t mutual. He was not my type. At. All. Early to mid-forties, chubby, an expensive but rumpled suit, and hair that was in need of a trim, nothing like the other man I had my sights on but I answered his questions and turned back to my friend. He butted in again and I brushed him off. I was too distracted to even hear what he said because the other man was paying his check and I had to make a move. Grabbing the card I headed over to him and said, “I didn’t want you to leave without this.”

“I was just getting ready to come over and talk to you on my way out. Just waiting to sign the bill.”

Dammit! I could’ve been coy but instead went all Alpha Chick.

“Great, see you soon.”

Back in my seat, the pest next to me asked how it went. My friend was in a conversation with the woman next to her and this time I turned towards him and actually answered. He officially introduced himself, told me his name (Scott) and we chatted for a minute until the perfect man from across the bar walked up. His name, I learned, was Rob.

I introduced my girlfriend to Rob and we turned our stools away from the bar since he was standing behind us. The three of us made small talk but a few minutes in he said something that annoyed me. It was about our new mayor, Bill de Blasio, and it was a typical smartass and uninformed statement from someone less “progressive” and aware than is normal in this city.

“That was a dumb thing to say,” said Scott quietly for my ears only. I turned back towards him and agreed.

“I think he might be Republican,” I sighed and Scott told me that although he worked on Wall Street, he was a liberal Democrat. We started talking politics—both local and national–and he was very knowledgeable.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Forty-five.”

“I’m fifty-two.”

“I would’ve never guessed. I noticed you the moment you walked in and when you sat down next to me I told the bartender to hold off on my to-go order. I am supposed to be bringing dinner to my brother and sister-in-law’s, but then I saw you.”

Ding, ding, ding. Chemistry with a capital C smacked me in the face.

I wasn’t sure I even felt little c with Rob after his stupid remark.

This story is lengthy and gets more interesting as the night wears on.

To be continued…

“The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.” C. G. Jung

The first week in February a senior editor from THE HUFFINGTON POST contacted me. The “Women” section would run a series for Valentine’s Day, “What I Know About Being Single Now That I’m In My 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s.” The editor was selecting one writer for each age category and I was very happy to hear she’d selected me for 50s.

I thought about the predictable things I could state.

1. I’m less critical of my body.

2. I’m finally confident in my ability to choose the right partner.

3. I’m happy being single.

4. Friends are just as much fun as a man.

5. I know what I’m looking for now more than ever.

6. I’m in no hurry. The biological clock has quit ticking.

Blah, blah, blah—BO-RING (and trite).

I try my best to tilt away from banal and that’s gotten me into trouble on both the online dating blog and THE HUFFINGTON POST. Seems nothing “stokes people’s hate fire” more than opinions that go against the grain. If you need proof, look at the Comments section of some of my more provocative pieces. This essay, though, didn’t seem to piss people off as much as others had. The comments were fairly mild in both number and tone. I always gird my loins when I publish a piece and it seemed this time the girding was unnecessary.

Sure, I had one comment on Huffpost from a man named “Windy Daze” who tried to rough me up. I don’t remember exactly what it said because it was “flagged as offensive” almost immediately and removed, but I think it went something like this:

“As a happily married man of more than 50 years I will tell you that relationships ARE hard work. I work hard every single day and NEVER take my wife for granted as you so ignorantly said. You have a lot to learn, MISS ROBINSON. Who do you think you are? You know nothing!”

I respond to every comment on my blog but I pick and choose on THE HUFFINGTON POST.I usually thank some who’ve left kind comments but I also go right back at some of the more insulting ones.

I know, I know. I should simply ignore those rude commenters since the attention fires them up and they keep coming back for more. But that’s conventional wisdom and I don’t buy it. What I’ve found is, if one person is bold enough to leave an offensive reply it can quickly become a feeding frenzy of cyber-courage when the more tentatively acerbic see blood in the water. For every one person willing to post something detestable there are many others who would like to say something inflammatory but lack the guts—until someone else crosses the line ahead of them.

I don’t have a problem with those who disagree with me. After all, my writing simply reflects my opinion. What annoys me, though, is when it gets personal or the reader makes assumptions based on their circumstances—as was the case with “Windy Daze.” I replied to his comment but since his was removed, my response was, too.

Here’s what I said:

“That might be your reality, but it wasn’t mine, mister. And where did I say I took my husband for granted? Go back and read the essay again, Windy Daze, and next time try a thorough read before waxing poetic in the Comments section. I get the feeling you want to put me in my place. Never gonna happen, you daffy ole bag of windy.”

Part of me felt a little sorry for the gusty one. I can’t imagine conjuring up CAPS rage unless something about the piece hit home. Maybe what I wrote caused our intrepid husband to have a fleeting thought that the strife of his marriage was not saintly devotion, but “miles in manure.” Nonetheless, the rest of the comments were mostly positive, and even when not they weren’t off-putting.

Next I went to THE HUFFINGTON POST Facebook page since they posted a link to the article and the first comment was this:

I was confused. Was “rat copulation” a new expression I’d never heard before? I went to Urban Dictionary, searched and found nothing. Then I searched “rat fuck” to see if I could get a definition of what Andrew Soto meant. Here’s what I found:

Uh, don’t think that’s a match.

Next:

Nope, I don’t think that applies, either.

Other readers took Andrew Soto to task so I didn’t ask for clarification. One questioned when his article would be published; another called him a “douche.” Although one powerhouse wordsmith wrote “big whoop” about an article in THE HUFFINGTON POST since they don’t usually pay and then qualified his comment by letting everyone know he’s a “published author and a well-paid editor.”

Um, yeah, OK.

I guess I’ll never know what Andrew meant by rat copulation but I don’t think it was complimentary. I have my opinion as to why Andrew Soto left that comment. I think Andrew feels insignificant and for one brief moment as his fingers typed away he got a rush, maybe even a boner. He felt more substantial hopped up on cyber-courage. Or, maybe I’m getting too analytical and he’s just a douche.

BUT, I am 100% certain he would never have the balls to say it to my face.

Whatever the reason, The Andrews or Windy Dazes of the virtual world will continue to spew their venom—especially when nobody calls them out. I know I will continue to do so and it’s my hope that some of you will do the same. The next time you read a defamatory or overtly asinine comment following an article you’ve enjoyed, I hope you’ll let the commenter know how you feel. I’ve found it usually shuts them up along with their less ballsy cohorts skulking through the comments trying to muster the nerve to be nasty. I have the luxury of blocking idiots from my blog and Facebook page and I blocked three from www.1yearofonlinedatingat50.com and none, yet, from this website. I don’t have that option when another site publishes my work. You’ll be doing a service to all writers who provide free entertainment. I don’t think anyone penning an opinion piece expects all to agree, but what’s wrong with a little civility when being contrary or even the radical move of simply clicking away to something more to your liking? Cyber-courage is an epidemic and I think it’s time we develop a vaccine.

“When a bully is held accountable for his actions, his future actions will change. Bad behavior only continues for those who allow it.” Gary Hopkins

The best thing about exposing my private life on 1yearofonlinedatingat50.com is that I made lots of new friends. Most of them cyber but occasionally I’ve had the opportunity to put a face to those emails and such was the case on Wednesday night.

My friend Jo and I began exchanging emails a few months into my year. She found the blog through a Huffpost piece. She was close to my age, single and had been online dating. I enjoyed our banter and eventually we began talking on the phone. Our conversations progressed from laughing about our shared dating experiences to our children or the dreams we both had of making a living as writers. You know, deep stuff–the joys of Botox and all that.

I often wished she lived closer. I imagined we would have fun going out, hoping to meet suitable men, but if they didn’t show up we’d still enjoy each other’s company. Alas, she lived in L.A., nixing my wing-woman fantasy.

BUT, Jo loves the theatre and visits the city at least once a year. A few months ago I had a missed call and a couple of texts–she had news.

I could hear the excitement in her voice as she told me she had a surprise. It seemed Sting was going to do ten benefit concerts in NYC at the Public Theatre and she’d purchased two tickets. They were crazy expensive as the venue was only 260 seats and she knew if she’d asked before buying, I would’ve said, “No way.”

She didn’t and we were going!

I love Sting. I love everything about him. He’s a musical genius, a deep thinker and rip-one’s-clothes-off-if-given-the-chance sexy. He may or may not be into tantric sex—something that’s always piqued my interest and if he’s what sixty-one can be, where do I find his doppelgänger? Several years ago I even flew to Miami for The Policereunion tour–during the summer, no less. Do you know what Miami’s like in the summer? I searched for the photos because public humiliation is what I live for, but couldn’t find them. Suffice to say I danced through the entire outdoor performance and was the least attractive version of myself when the concert was over–makeup gone, a wet haired sweaty mess.

So on Wednesday, Jo and I met for the first time. She came to my place early for a glass of wine and the first thing she said was, “You look exactly like your photos,” and she did, too. Actually, Jo had water and I drank wine. I was a little nervous about our meeting and hoped it wouldn’t be awkward–it wasn’t.

Apologies for the flip-flops. I do wear heels but never put them on until almost to the destination. The dress is DVF—my fav—and I got it on sale at Bloomingdales. The black areas are leather and the color blocking is deceptively flattering. I paired it with a black leather jacket. I wanted a pair of black cage booties and loved the Michael Kors below but couldn’t find them plus I didn’t want to pay $200 or more for shoes I would probably wear only a few times.

Instead I found these at DSW for $60 and they gave me the same look I wanted.

Here’s a trick my daughter taught me. When you’re wearing shoes you know will give you blisters, apply runners anti-chafe stick to your feet. You’re dogs will still be barking but they’ll be blister-free in the morning even after hours of wearing heels.

OK, OK! Enough about fashion and back to the concert.

We left my apartment and headed to Lafayette for dinner near the theatre. We both ordered steak frites probably because a woman should have a good foundation of meat and potatoes when she’s getting intimate with Sting. The food was perfect as was the conversation but enough dilly-dallying. Mr. Perfection waited.

I couldn’t believe our seats. He would be no more than twenty feet away. “Holy shit,” I thought as the theatre filled, “If I rushed the stage and wrapped my legs around his waist could I do it tastefully?” His wife Trudie was one of the last to take her seat. She wore black leather pants and top with gray suede over-the knee platform boots. Her body was amazing—she’s fifty-nine. She was at the concert in Miami, too.

Why’s she always cramping my style?

Then HE came out with little fanfare wearing a torn white t-shirt and jeans. Pause right now while you’re reading this for a moment of silence because he deserves worship. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on his perfectly toned physique. You should’ve seen his arms. I could die happy to have those wrapped around me just once and, of course, he’d simultaneously sing “Fields of Gold” in my ear.

The concert was given to introduce the audience to his current work, The Last Ship, a musical based on his childhood growing up in an English shipbuilding town. OK, I admit it was a little disappointing. I assumed we’d not be hearing his greatest hits, but he could sing nursery rhymes and I’d be on the edge of my seat. No surprise, his new work was beautiful.

AND he did throw in “Fields of Gold,” “When We Dance” and an encore of “All This Time.” “Fields of Gold” is one of my favorite songs and what woman doesn’t dream of hearing:

I never made promises lightly

And there have been some that I’ve broken

But I swear in the days still left

We’ll walk in fields of gold

He played for three hours with only a ten-minute break. He danced along with one song and I swooned. He wasn’t the best dancer but he was having fun and exuded confidence. Men, take note. You don’t have to be Justin Timberlake—just dance joyfully. Ladies love it.

It was magical evening, over too soon. Obviously seeing Sting was spectacular but the best part of the night was finally meeting my friend. I have no doubt we’ll have lots of fun in the future and this is a friendship I’ll appreciate, in the days still left.

It took me a while. I know, I know, I’ve had them for a couple of months but I’ve not felt physically attracted to any men I’ve encountered.

OK, that’s kind of a lie.

I’m attracted to lots of men, they’re just too young. I’m having a bit of a crisis because I am consistently drawn to men in their early forties. I’ve concluded that males are at their physical peak at that age and I chronically have to remind myself that I’m fifty-two. I guess a ten year difference isn’t that awful but there’s that voice in my head whispering that a decade WILL matter when I’m eighty.

There’s nothing sexy about a chick with a walker.

SO, I’ve been scouring the crowds in my fair city to find a fifty-something man whom I can imagine cozying up to. Physical attraction is always the first step quickly followed with an assessment of just how fucked up he is. Seriously, we all are (to some degree) with a half-century of living behind us.

Back to Saturday.

I spent the day with my surrogate family—Karen and Mark, my neighbors. It was a sweltering afternoon–Finnish saunas have nothing on the NYC subway system with the soaring temps coupled with humidity. We had just returned to our neighborhood after seeing the micro-living exhibit at the Museum of the City of New York, followed by lunch at the Red Rooster in Harlem. We surmised two things: living in the tiny apartment on display might be doable if we weren’t claustrophobic AND my fried chicken kicks Red Rooster “Yard Bird” ass.

As we exited the subway station at 72nd, a mountain of a man (at least 6’4”) approached and asked for directions. He was looking for a specific shoe store in our neighborhood, one that carried footwear in larger sizes. Karen, Mark and I looked at his feet and, yep, they were massive. “What size are they?” Mark asked and he replied, “Sixteen,” with a grin.

I admit that got my attention. Ladies, my brain went where yours would, too. You know you were thinking–big feet, big…..

I noticed he had an accent but I couldn’t place it. Let’s see: tall—check, age appropriate—check, accent—check, handsome–check and the potential foot correlation was a bonus. Mark gave him directions to the shoe store on 72nd and he plodded away but not before we had a moment. You know what I mean–that thing that happens when eye contact is made and held a couple of seconds longer than necessary.

As I watched him go I remembered my Cheek’d cards and started the awkward and annoying task of rummaging through my handbag to find them.

UGH.

I fumbled endlessly until I eventually located the cards but not without puncturing my hand with the bristle of a vent brush and dirtying my fingernails with the crumbs of god-knows-what from the bottom of my bag. Next I had to choose the appropriate card and by then he’d crossed the street and disappeared. Mark and Karen had an errand on 72nd Street so I gave the card to Mark and said, “If you see him, tell him it’s from the blonde.”

Who the hell says that besides Mae West?

I walked home wondering how long it would take for contact.

Perhaps I was being overconfident as I checked my Gmail account minutes after walking in the door. Cheek’d will send a message when someone has logged on using a card.

Nada.

I assumed that Mark couldn’t find him until he sent a text letting me know he’d given Paul Bunyan the card and also confirmed he wasn’t married.

Well, maybe he was busy with shopping and I’d hear from him later.

Nope.

Perhaps, because he’s foreign, he’ll wait until he’s returned to his hotel to use their computer so as not to rack up international charges on his smartphone.

Naw.

Still nothing by the next day.

AND every day after that.

A person can only make excuses for so long before facing the harsh truth—he wasn’t interested. I wasn’t deterred, though. I took the rejection in stride and faced his lack of interest like a big girl. “Who cares that he didn’t like me.” I muttered, “We could never slow dance with those clodhoppers all up on me.”

“I’ll be better prepared next time,” I thought as I cleaned out the chasm of crud also know as my purse. I put the cards in a strategic pocket, easily accessible the next time I found myself attracted to a handsome stranger, one with normal feet, mind you. I wasn’t going to let one tiny hiccup discourage me, no siree! There was no need to spend another moment looking back or deliberating (ad nauseam) as to why he didn’t make contact. And as I gathered the unsightly pile of pocketbook debris: gum wrappers, receipts, political flyers, a golf tee, a wine cork, half of a doggie chew stick, a broken rubber band, seven paperclips, two empty bottles of hand sanitizer, a used up tube of lip balm and the pile of crumbs of unknown origin and made my way to the garbage can I knew I’d put the unfortunate incident behind me.

Almost.

As I stood over the trash receptacle brushing the crumbs from my hands I had one of Oprah’s Aha! Moments.

“OF COURSE,” I yelled, without, um, delusion. “He must be gay.”

“I really wish I was less of a thinking man and more a fool not afraid of rejection.” Billy Joel

The other night I had two glasses of wine and my fingers were itching to be naughty.

Yep, I wanted to sext.

White wine does that to me. I know, how bourgeoisie.

But let me be clear. I didn’t want to send nude selfies. I was just looking to exchange some sexually charged messages with the man I’m rolling around with. Unfortunately, I’m tumbling solo these days and had to settle for several games of Tetris, which I’m worried has probably become an addiction and certainly a highly unsatisfactory substitute for a warm body.

Sexting is the new normal.

My daughters tell me everyone does it.

Gone are the days of phone sex. You aren’t even supposed to leave a voicemail message anymore. During the first two years of our relationship, my late husband and I lived apart—he in Toronto and I in Las Vegas. We saw each other every two weeks but in between we had frequent phone sex. It took some coercing for him to try since all inhibitions must go with thetelephonic dirty. He was a dignified guy who thought it was tawdry.

“It is,” I agreed, “That’s why it’s fun.”

Often we’d end up laughing. Sometimes the scenario created with steamy words didn’t match the mental picture but even when we were serious, it was harmless play between consenting adults.

I look forward to a future of Saucy Talk 2.0, where my fingers run free.

I had no problem with Anthony Weiner, either.

Photo courtesy of Esquire.com

Sure, it was stupid but I chalked it up to a typical guy who got caught in a ridiculous game with strangers. He wasn’t screwing those women, just behaving like lots of married men having cybersex.

Would I have been pissed if I were his wife? You better believe it. There would have been hell to pay, but I can honestly say I would’ve forgiven him. The oh so public part of it would be hard to handle, though.

Mr. Weiner suffered for his foibles. He lost his congressional seat; the world knew of his humiliating indiscretions and most importantly, his pregnant wife was the biggest victim. That was the tragic part.

BUT, everyone loves a good comeback and Anthony Weiner’s story is no exception. I was ready to vote for him in the NYC mayoral election and he was leading in several polls. It looked like he was the proverbial Phoenix and New Yorkers were about to see his rise (nope, not biting).

Then yesterday happened.

When I heard that more of his “junk” had surfaced I hoped it was from the past. Didn’t he tell us it might happen? Then I went online and read about it while waiting for the news conference. Surely he would offer proof this happened before he resigned from congress, right? He wouldn’t have continued that behavior after he was busted and certainly wouldn’t run for mayor if he hadn’t cleaned up his act?

WELL, HELL’S BELLS.

He kept it going.

Some may say it is an addiction. Maybe. Addiction specialists state a person has to hit rock bottom to change the behavior. How much lower did he have to go? What could possibly be more humbling than the consequences of his stupidity?

It appears Weiner forgot the 11th Commandment:

“Thou shalt not expose thy penis to strangers once you’ve been caught.”

For shit’s sake. His parents and in-laws now know his AKA is Carlos Danger.

“I’d leave him,” said my daughter Morgan. I was glad to hear it. It was painful to watch a woman of Huma Abedin’s stature read the statement she did. I played it over and over looking for contrition on Weiner’s face as his wife spoke. It just wasn’t there.

Perhaps he was never held accountable as a child. Maybe his parents allowed him to get away with impulsive, immature behavior and even if that’s the case, he’s now a grown man who’s chosen a public life. And he’s been fortunate. Clearly, he overachieved in his marriage and is certainly lucky to have that beautiful son. I guess it’s hard to think about a child when you’re acting like one yourself.

He should bow out of the race, IMHO. He should spend the rest of his life making it right with his wife. He should devote himself to his son and focus on living a scandal-free existence. He should do the right thing and never, ever make that mistake again because he’s used up his supply of blunders.

He lost my vote but he gets my advice:

Grow the fuck up, Carlos.

“I’ve looked on many women with lust. I’ve committed adultery in my heart many times. God knows I will do this and forgives me.” –-President Jimmy Carter

My quest to finish sixty days of Insanity and have a bikini-worthy bod has failed. Partly because I was benched after my unfortunate coccyx injury. The other part? I could give you a multitude of excuses as to why I didn’t get back on that bitch of a horse—I caught a horrible summer cold, my air conditioning sucks, I’m consumed with a new piece for a publication that’s rejected me half a dozen times, etc.

Are you rolling your eyes yet?

The truth? I just didn’t feel like doing it.

I know (for those who’ve finished the challenge), it’s life changing. I saw my body begin to transform and liked it. I simply hated that I never, ever, ever quit being sore. I’m a fairly healthy person and rarely get sick so feeling like crap day after day was depressing. There has to be some form of exercise that won’t kill me and I’m ready (gasp) to accept:

“She has a decent body, for her age.”

I might’ve cut out the offending tongue before.

I vividly remember a conversation I had in my late twenties with a cousin close to my age. We were both trying to lose the baby weight we’d gained during our pregnancies. We talked about the joy of letting it all go once we reached fifty. We decided that we’d buy lots of polyester pants with elastic waistbands and big billowy tops. Our free time would be spent skulking around garage sales. We’d eat anything we wanted—biscuits and gravy for breakfast, See’s Candies for lunch.

“Who cares when we’re old biddies!” we said, and laughed until our stomachs hurt.

What a couple of assholes.

First of all, I hate garage sales and why the hell did we think our sense of style would end once we turned fifty years old? I’m telling you now if you EVER see me wearing polyester pants walk up with a pair of scissors and cut them from my body. Leave me standing in my Hanky Panky because as embarrassing as my naked thong-wearing ass might be in public, I will not wear the fabric of my grandmother.

Um, yes, that’s a selfie I took in the mirror. What?

Now, yoga pants with Spandex or skinny jeans with Lycra? Can’t get enough. Could those be the 2013 version of polyester?

It doesn’t help that I’m experiencing the summertime blues. I’m usually happy but lately I’ve become so hangdoggie I can hardly stand myself. As I wrote last summer, lots of people feel sad around the holidays if they’re unattached but for me it’s warm weather and the lack of a plus one that brings me down. It’s not like I’m doing anything about it, though. I have the fantastic cards from Cheek’d with me at all times and just last week at Trader Joe’s I saw a handsome, age appropriate man nearby as I was checking out. I discretely maneuvered myself into a position to make sure the body matched the face and yep, it did. He was in good shape and his basket was filled with all kinds of interesting stuff.

Then I glanced down.

He was wearing sensible shoes.

A pair so tragically functional it was as if he worked in a machete factory and had butterfingers. I got so caught up in his dreadful footwear that I failed to swipe my card and the clerk had to ask my preferred method of payment–twice.

What would motivate someone to buy those beasts? Who’s his stylist, Herman Munster?

On Memorial Day I hosted a barbecue and invited eight guests. If movies and books are to be believed, New Yorkers have the most stimulating dinner conversations covering a wide range of topics such as: politics, literature, cool restaurants and art. I think that’s a fairly accurate portrayal. This city is filled to the brim with smart people and that took some adjusting when I first arrived.

I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. It’s not that I’m giving Einstein any competition but I do feel I’m fairly intelligent or at least did until landing in 10023.

Reality?

I’m barely a C student here.

BUT, I’ve found, no matter the zip code, the chat always, and I mean always comes around to relationships. Who’s in one, who’s still looking. Inevitably there will be someone who offers suggestions to the singletons at the table. Perhaps sharing a successful formula for finding a match.

That happened during my dinner party.

A recently engaged guest suggested (to the single ladies) that we make a commitment to meet at least once a week, preferably twice weekly, at different happy hour spots in the city. We should gather from 5:30 pm to 7:30 pm as a group in different neighborhoods to meet different kinds of guys. She said she’d join us and be our wingwoman, initiating conversations with the men we found interesting. “What do I have to lose?” she asked. Her fiancé said he’d occasionally come too.

I thought it was a brilliant strategy and one that would work perfectly with something NEW I’d stumbled upon, Cheek’d.

Here’s how Cheek’d works. You sign up and create a basic profile. You order a set of Cheek’d cards that you keep with you at all times. If you happen to see someone you are interested in you walk up, hand them a card and walk away. Simple, painless and no risk of rejection and the next move is theirs. The information on the card tells them where they can find you. They go to the cheekd.com and enter a code that takes them to your profile where they can send you a message.

How ingenious is that?

Now, instead of perusing profiles and ending up disappointed with the person once you’re face to face, you’ve already determined there’s an attraction. No more missed opportunities, either. How many times have you seen someone and wished for the courage to make contact? It happens to me often and once they’re gone the chances are almost zero that I’ll see then again. I even wrote a post about missed opportunities during my year of online dating.

The cards are clever. Here are some examples:

look up. you might miss something.

this is your lucky day.

you can thank me later.

shouldn’t you be asleep at this hour?

i’m a keeper.

this leads to someone you should meet.

don’t let me get away.

your move.

where have i been all your life?

this card is good for finding me again.

i’m totally cooler than your date.

i’m hitting on you.

So, I’m going to combine the weekly happy hour gatherings with the cards and see what happens. I’ll let you know how it goes. I’m also keeping them with me every single time I leave the apartment. You never know who you might see walking down the street or at the deli counter at Fairway Market, right?

UPDATE: Within fifteen minutes of this post going live, Lori Cheek of Cheek’d found me on Facebook and offered 50% off your card order. Use the promo code: SUMMERLOVIN. Thank you so much, Ms. Cheek!

Insanity Update: I should be almost finished with my 60-day challenge. Unfortunately, I fell a couple of weeks ago (totally sober and with an audience), and bruised my coccyx. I wrote a blog post called “Coccyx Blocked” but my “editor” told me it was quite boring so I scrapped it. The details aren’t important. Suffice to say that I took two weeks off to let my tailbone heal and started back on Insanity this week. UGH, it was too soon so I’m giving myself a little more time to recover and then I’ll get back to cursing Shaun T and that perky chick on the DVD who smiles through the torture. I’ll let you know the outcome and am still committed to wearing a bikini if the results are good.

“Opportunities are never lost; someone will take the one you miss.” Author Unknown

Rarely having the disposable income to hire it done has certainly contributed to the condition. In New York City there are people willing to do just about anything you don’t prefer to do–for a fee, of course.

Want a lightly toasted bagel and coffee delivered precisely ten minutes before you head to work in the morning? No problem.

I don’t indulge in the many conveniences living here offers and sometimes gripe about what a pain in the ass it is to reside in a crowded city while doing everything for yourself. Especially as I lug a new vacuum ten blocks from Bed Bath and Beyond to my apartment.

Last week I helped a friend empty her storage unit. She rented it seven years ago and the stuff had been inside, undisturbed, for all that time. Everything is crazy expensive in the city and storage units are no exception. Like most Manhattanites, she looked for ways to cut costs and paying to store forgotten possessions was a logical thing to chop. I told her if we could do it in three hours I was available as I had plans early that night (more on that later). We headed to Manhattan Mini Storage and got busy. I created three piles: Garbage, Sell, and Keep. Once finished she thanked me and commented on my physical strength as I lifted heavy boxes and suitcases from an upper level unit that required standing on a ladder and reaching inside. I am strong and I attribute that to my father. Being a girl never got me a manual labor pass. If something substantial had to be hoisted or carried I was expected to grab a side and go, without hesitation. Whining was never an option and I longed for gender discrimination at home (“Girls can’t do that!”). But since my dad did the grocery shopping and cooking along with the heavy lifting, the Equal Rights Amendment reached ratification in 1972 in one tract home on McKinley Avenue.

On Saturday I went to Home Depot. Just the scent of a hardware store makes me happy and there’s nothing I love more than walking the aisles while in my mind creating the next home improvement project I’d like to tackle. Many are just pipedreams—the result of living in a rental apartment where management might get testy if I walked in with the bathtub of my dreams and a sledgehammer.

Still, I’m considering sneaking in some glass tile and grout for a backsplash in my kitchen. I’ve watched several “how to” videos on YouTube and I think I can do it. Saturday I was there to buy containers and several bags of potting soil.

On the weekend there’s a man who sets up a stand near my street on Broadway. He sells deeply discounted flowers and plants that have seen better days. I have a suspicion he gets his wares from the dumpsters of florists. I call him Dead Flower Guy and snicker when I see people actually paying for those wilted bouquets. I turned into one of those fools on Saturday when I noticed two (not too dead) azalea plants. The price was right and I bought them. My daughter Morgan brought the car to the 3rd Avenue Home Depot and we loaded the bags of soil and pots inside—she helped bring them into my building, too. Pedro (doorman extraordinaire) jumped up to give us a hand as he always does. “You two are always dragging in something heavy,” he said, laughing.

I planted the azaleas on Sunday afternoon. It was a beautiful day and it felt good to be in the sunshine on the terrace up to my elbows in dirt.

It was also a bit lonely.

I longed for someone to share in the toiling as well as the moment where one stands back and admires the accomplishment.

Not just any man. THE man.

Last Friday night I squeezed into shape wear and met a single girlfriend for drinks. Our goal was to find a happy hour spot where age appropriate single men gather. We started at Milos and went to another place nearby, but had no luck.

If anyone knows where men of a certain age gather after work in Manhattan, please share the love.

I haven’t been on a date since ending my year of online dating. As much as I enjoyed blogging about the experiences, one awful meeting after another took its toll. It has taken several months to consider dating again and that might explain gaining seven pounds. When I took myself off the market I was no longer competing with the plethora of walking x-rays who inhabit this city. OK, I’m a little jealous of their ability to survive each day eating only a carrot and I’ve decided to forgo Levain cookies and Empire’s snack cakes until I’m comfortable parading around my apartment in the nude with the blinds open. I’m also two weeks into the Insanity 60 Day Challenge, Shaun T is still kicking my badonk, but I’ve noticed my body is starting to change.

It’s time to get back on the horse.

My life is dogma-free. You will never find me praying to God, Allah, Buddha or Jesus. I’m not even sure what I believe. I’m more comfortable sending my hopes to the ambiguous Universe. I regularly propel thoughts out there and then forget them until what I’ve asked for materializes.

Here are a couple examples:

The only thing I miss about my home in Las Vegas is outdoor space—a rarity in Manhattan. I threw out my request and then didn’t give it another thought. A year ago a friend was moving to Palm Springs and he owned an amazing apartment a couple of blocks away. No outdoor space but it had a washer and dryer—quite a luxury. I was thrilled and couldn’t wait to move. All that was left was approval from his apartment board. “Only a technicality,” he was told. A day later my friend called with bad news. His building was pet-friendly, but only for owners. Anyone renting an apartment couldn’t have pets. I was so disappointed but I figured something better was coming. Several months later I went with a friend to an apartment on the roof of my building. She knew the tenant and was feeding her cats while she was away. I walked outside and admired the second apartment on the roof. The outdoor space was amazing. At that moment a woman walked outside to hang wet clothes on the railing and I yelled from across the roof, “You’re living in my dream apartment.” She replied, “We just gave notice. It’s available October 1st.” One minute earlier or later I would’ve missed her. The Universe conspired to give me that information and I’m now living my dream.

I planned to get another dog. Kate was lonely and needed a friend. What I wanted was a Norwich Terrier, but I had a problem buying a dog given the amount of rescues in need of homes. A Norwich rescue just doesn’t exist as there are a small number of breeders and they keep tight control of where the puppies go. Every new owner must sign a document that states if they can no longer care for the dog they’ll return it to the breeder. They’re also very expensive. I contacted a couple of breeders and they chuckled at my naïve request. One told me, haughtily, “The Norwich is never a rescue.” Oh, pardon me. I quit thinking about a friend for Kate and figured The Universe would lead me to the right dog. Six months later I got an email message from a breeder who was a friend of a friend. She’d heard that I was looking for a rescue and she had a dog that was purchased because the buyer wanted a dog that might be good enough for Westminster. This breeder had a “Best in Breed” at Westminster many years ago and felt that the male puppy she had could be the next. After a year of working with a handler in preparation for the show ring it was determined that the dog was too big. The then-owner asked the breeder if she could give the dog to her adult daughter. The breeder agreed. Two years later the daughter had three children under five and couldn’t give the dog the proper attention. She contacted the breeder again and asked if she could return Nigel. The breeder had heard of my desire to adopt a rescue Norwich and she reached out to me. I was a bit concerned because the dog was going to be sent back to the breeder in California and I would have to fly to California to get him. I was leaving in two days for my annual summer trip to Virginia Beach so the timing was horrible. I spoke to the breeder and told her of upcoming vacation.“Where’s the dog now?” I asked.

“In Virginia,” she replied.

“Where in Virginia?”

“Virginia Beach.”

Two days later, Nigel was mine. I can’t imagine anyone thinking that was a coincidence. Thanks, Universe.

These are just two examples of things that happen often. That’s why I don’t “muscle through” life anymore. When something was difficult, the old me would plow through the muck no matter how tough–forcing the outcome. It seemed when I pushed hardest and got what I wanted it turned into a mistake. Now I know there’s a reason it’s not easy, something better is waiting if I can let go.

On Sunday, feeling lonely as I planted here’s what I asked for:

“This time around I want a man who’s handy. Someone who won’t roll his eyes but instead roll up his sleeves when I have an idea. He’s got to be sophisticated, though, and an Irish accent wouldn’t hurt.”

I know. The accent part was over the top but when sending thoughts into the ether of no deity, one is allowed to be a greedy bitch. Plus, “wouldn’t hurt” was only a suggestion.

I picture a fifty-year-old version of Gerard Butler, comfortable with a multitude of drill bits. The kind of guy who uses a level instead of determining a picture is straight by eyeballing it. I imagine we’ll tackle the occasional project together and he’ll do most of the heavy lifting. I can see us laughing as we work and when we’re finished, he’ll put his arm around me while we admire our accomplishment. Later that evening he’ll suggest I put on something sexy since he’s made a dinner reservation at Per Se.

“The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science. He to whom the emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand wrapped in awe, is as good as dead —his eyes are closed. The insight into the mystery of life, coupled though it be with fear, has also given rise to religion. To know what is impenetrable to us really exists, manifesting itself as the highest wisdom and the most radiant beauty, which our dull faculties can comprehend only in their most primitive forms—this knowledge, this feeling is at the center of true religiousness.” Albert Einstein

To read an interview I gave to Kevin Ryan for Huffington Post click here.

When I appeared on The Steve Harvey Show something that stuck in my craw was a statement Steve made. “I think the blog is hurting your chances of meeting a man.” Then he followed with “You should quit the blog.” That last suggestion ended up on the cutting room floor so those watching the show didn’t hear it. Oh, but I did.

I wasn’t elated.

Now, I knew that most men I dated weren’t thrilled with the prospect of becoming blog fodder. What kind of idiot would enjoy that? But the blog had brought such joy to my life. I loved the comments from readers. Especially when my tales resonated with women. It was the reason I’d started the thing in the first place since I was looking for, and couldn’t find, a narrative that confirmed what one needs when dealing with a touch situation:

“You are not alone.”

I was over the moon when I received comments from men who read the blog and used it as a What Not To Do manifesto. When Steve told me to quit before the year was up I was annoyed. Didn’t he understand I had a loyal following?

I’d made a commitment, damnit!

“Are you making any money from the blog?” Mr. Harvey asked when he saw the look on my face. He was probably thinking: This bitch is crazy.

“No, and my year is almost up. I have two months left.”

He suggested that since I was an attractive, positive woman I should blog about that. Put those dating tales of woe behind me. Yeah, it was sage advice and it wasn’t happening.

BUT it did get me thinking.

There had to be a way to use the blog as a springboard to other things that might help me earn a living. The obvious choice was a book. I’m working on that now, but I came up with a second idea just after DatingAdvice.com named me one of the “Ten Best Online Dating Experts.”

Sheesh, that was unexpected and quite an honor.

I decided to create an online dating workshop/boot camp for men (click on the tab if you’re interested). A three hour class where twenty men are taken through the online dating process–beginning to end. A friend of mine gave it a subtitle: Making the World a Better Place for Women: Twenty Clueless Men at a Time. She wasn’t being mean. What I’d give to take a class on what men were really thinking. I’d love to better understand the common, yet quirky aspects of the average guy.

In a couple of weeks I’ll hold my first workshop. I’m very comfortable in front of an audience. I was a corporate trainer for the bulk of my career. Give me snappy presentation and a room full of bodies and I’ll do my thing. It’s never boring. I’ve found that any subject is better with humor. In my former career you should’ve seen what I did with Harassment and Discrimination Awareness–brought the house down with that one.

My latest Huffpost piece is all about the upcoming boot camp. If you’re a follower who’s transitioned from www.1yearofonlinedatingat50.com to here and you are feeling charitable, I’d appreciate a comment on The Huffington Post site. If you could direct your comment to the men who might be reading the article and considering the workshop, I’d be grateful. Let them know why you think they should attend.

Neal’s plane from Toronto was delayed several hours. I hadn’t checked the flights before leaving the house so I was at McCarran Airport two hours ahead of schedule. It was rare that I had nothing to do with raising two teenagers and a demanding job. I meandered through the stores looking at stuff that visitors bought last minute to commemorate their trip to Sin City.

As I picked up Las Vegas shot glasses, flipped through racks of cheesy T-shirts and caught up on celebrity gossip in the magazine section, I thought about luck.

Many previous V-days were spent with a man I’d been with off and on for several years. Our relationship was far from perfect—some might say even toxic—but I was worn down and tired of hoping for something better. He loved my daughters and me and I wanted to have a partner.

BUT there’s nothing that illuminates a bad pairing more than meeting the Yin to one’s Yang.

Earlier that day a ridiculously large box of tulips was delivered to my office.

My favorite flower, and there were dozens in that package direct from Holland. There was also a note:

We’re so lucky to have found each other. Some of the women you work with won’t receive flowers today. Please share these with them. I love you forever, Neal.

Waiting just outside of Security I saw him approaching before he saw me. No matter how many times I watched him head my way I still couldn’t believe he was with me.

He always carried on his bag—not trusting baggage handlers in what he called “cowboy country.” By then it was almost midnight and we decided to drive until we got tired. We’d booked a room for the weekend in our destination, but we weren’t going to make it there that night.

By Barstow we were bushed. A bedraggled motel was the best we could do and Neal chastised me for walking barefoot from the shower to the bed as he brushed his teeth—wearing only his loafers.

Waiting for me on the pillow was a card and my favorite holiday sweets. Neal was a Godiva Chocolates sort of guy but that box would be for some other chick. I’m vintage and get an unnaturally large kick out of these.

Come on. If my candy’s saying:

“Cutie Pie”

Purr Fect”

“So Fine”

Or the best:

“Cool Cat”

It can’t be wrong.

The next morning we grabbed a McMuffin, and hit the road. A couple of hours later we’d arrived. I’ve been to lots of romantic spots but there’s something about Laguna Beach that’s especially magical. This was not a new experience—I’d been there multiple times since I was a child–I’d also visited with other men. The difference that weekend was that Neal and I were so in love. We could be anywhere and immersed in each other, but given that setting that exuded eroticism and it was almost overwhelming. It wasn’t that we did anything different than I’d done previously but it was the ocean, the way it looked, the salty scent and feel on the skin, the relaxed beach town vibe that encouraged the tactile.

We stayed at the Surf and Sand Resort and slept that Saturday night with the door to our balcony open.

The sound of the waves crashing caused me to fall into a deep sleep that would’ve lasted until morning had Neal not awakened me. Always a light and sporadic sleeper I would often find the space next to me empty but on that night he was there, his mouth next to my ear, repeating my name.

He took my hand and led me to the balcony overlooking the surf. He wanted to share the view of the deserted beach and the water lit up by the moon. We were alone.

The next morning we took a walk on that beach and I asked him to go barefoot. He protested, reminding me how much he disliked sand between his toes–so unclean, and all that. But he finally acquiesced and grimaced a little for effect.

I knew the truth.

Neal was so beautiful in (almost) every way but he had the most heinous feet. Large, wide caveman-like monstrosities with a big toe that was startling in it’s girth. The first time I saw those tootsies I winced and then insisted he put them in my lap for closer inspection. After a few minutes of silent observation while running my hands over every part I nodded and said:

“Yep, those are without a doubt the ugliest feet I’ve ever seen.”

After he died, when I needed to smile I’d simply put my hand into his shoe to feel the deep impression left in the lining by that toe. I’d remember my merciless teasing and his laughter that always followed.

So Neal took off his shoes, we walked on the beach barefoot and then asked a stranger to take a photo.

The drive back to Las Vegas (and to the airport for his departure) was a quiet but comfortable one. We were both smoothed out–mellowed by the experience. Neal told me that for the first time, in as long as he could remember, he slept for the entire flight back to Toronto.